


Dance of the Stars

by KieraVenic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Magic, Romance, coming to terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KieraVenic/pseuds/KieraVenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic is a sin; a curse, they would murmur. Hawke had never believed that before. What had changed? When had she started to doubt? His expression darkened further, throat tightening. Was this his doing, then? Had he driven her to curse the power she had been born with? He desired to make her see that she had worn away this belief of his. (Post game. Fluffy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance of the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this was written at work to be honest… Shhhh, but the last part was basically me in the dark, snowing outside, scented candle burning, while eating nutella and strawberry jam to celebrate Forever Alone Day. No date? No problem. I got these two fluffy nerds to entertain me on this day of fluff. (Seriously though, try nutella with strawberry jam… it’s the lazy version of chocolate covered strawberries. Cheaper and less messy. So good.)

It had started only a couple months after they fled from Kirkwall. When at last Sebastian, Merrill, and Varric had left them, Hawke had begun to disappear during the twilight hours.

At first, he had thought little of it. They had only recently settled in a meager, rather run down, home in the wilds, courtesy of Varric's merchant connections. It was not an entirely new experience for either of them. They had both lived on the run, taking shelter where they could find it. When the weather warmed and Hawke began to slip away as the sun fell, Fenris simply thought she was exploring their new territory. It never hurt for one to take extra precaution, especially when one was being hunted.

But as the habit continued from spring into summer, Fenris became curious. Nightly, as the stars began to blink into the sky, Hawke would return, often exhausted and always a little sweaty. Questioning her only drew a weary smile and a passing remark about exercise.

He had taken it at face value initially. But summer deepened and the habit continued. Their days were already often spent with great physical activity as they worked to make their battered home winter ready. Anything they could not scavenge resulted in lengthy trips to the nearest village some few leagues away; a trip that tended to take a whole day. Hawke was anything but unfit. For a Mage, her muscles were firm and defined. She did not have the flabby soft flesh of the pampered Magisters he had known.

Yet, when he had brought it up, Hawke passed it off, changing the subject uneasily. The omissions, and perhaps lies, did not bother him for the reason one might expect.

Fenris trusted her. He did not suspect any sort of duplicity. Any doubt he may have had on the matter had been dashed to oblivion when she had stood tall before Danarius, face twisted in a snarl.

_"Fenris is no one's slave!"_

And any fears that she might turn to another were gone. She had held herself chaste for three years, waiting, hoping, that he would come back. That knowledge had awed and humbled him; that another creature in this world would wait for him, of all people. She had looked at no others, had even stepped back when Anders had reached out to her those years ago. That she would reject another Mage, as eager as her for freedom, for him, for one that openly spat upon magic users, had been eye opening.

Which only left him back at step one in his curiosity. If her activities were not of duplicity, why would she not tell him? He had his suspicions.

Hawke was a woman of pride, but she also fiercely depended on the approval of those close to her. While she might have made decisions she knew would displease others, firm in her belief that her choices were right, it did not mean it did not sting her when they disapproved. If she was doing something she thought someone she cared for would hate, she went to great lengths to hide it. He could clearly recall all her "secret" visits to Anders. Fenris knew that she had left him behind, knowing that anything the two of them spoke of would be met with disapproval, perhaps with a sneer.

But then what could she be doing that she feared what Fenris would think? That she might be embarrassed of to the extent that she would spend months attempting to hide it. He did not miss the ways she had increased her efforts to slip in and out of their home unnoticed. It was rather hard not to notice the absence of the only other person for leagues around.

As summer began to wane, Fenris made a choice. Hawke would be unhappy, should she find out, but his curiosity was too great to deny any longer.

He was seated cross legged in their arm chair when he heard the telltale click of the back door. Green eyes flicked up from the book in his lap. It was set aside and, silent, he padded after her. Careful distance was kept between them, but Hawke never glanced back. She walked a well-worn trail with the ease of familiarity; not a deer path, but one of her own making.

The scraggily branches of brush and long grasses caught and tugged at the black peasant's skirt she wore, her loose blouse catching in the faint evening breeze. Her head turned, just slightly, into the air. He could make out the thick curve of her cheeks as they rose with a smile.

An easing had come over her body, a lightness in her step, that he had not seen in a while, except perhaps when he could not sleep; nights spent kept awake by the burn of his marks, calming himself by watching her sleep.

The smattering of trees and brush faded into a glade of tall grasses. Tufts at their ends swung with the wind. Elegant fingers reached out to brush the fuzzy masses. Fenris could just catch her laughter from where he hung back in the shade of the trees.

The sun had passed below the forest's canopy now, the sky cast in deep orange that ranged into vivid purples. In the twilight, the dark was periodically broken by the flicker of fireflies. It was a beautiful spot, one he had been unaware of before, despite his nervous prowling of the land.

Near the approximate center, she at last slowed to a stop. Nothing of note happened for a while. Golden hazel eyes were cast to the sky, tracing wisps of cloud and fingers toyed with the grasses. A firefly was carefully cupped and then gently blown into flight. The two of them followed the path of the flickering creature. Then, another light began to mimic its gentle pulse.

The sensation was immediate. A faint tingle traced along familiar curving shapes that lined his body. Muscles in his jaw bunched and jumped before slowly releasing their tension.

In the curve of one hand, Hawke cupped a soft light. It was small, no larger around than the circumference of a sovereign. Its watery light pulsed erratically with the rhythm of the bug. Then, flashed out of existence.

Slow, tellingly familiar movements began; the slow rise and turn of a leg, the sweeping curve of an arm. Magic aimlessly twisted around her. Water curved and swirled down the arm to pass away as mist. Fire flashed and died with the flick of a wrist and press of a palm. Earth jutted and then smoothed with the press of a heel or sweep of the foot. Lights would sparkle and dim to her whim before they would vanish, all done with careful measure in a seemingly spontaneous set of dance like movements.

In time, the elements snuffed out entirely. Her pace slowed, arms drawing in to carefully shape globes of light. Each was flicked away to varying distances and heights where they hovered with seeming hesitation. And the dance began anew.

Movements that had first appeared as separate from one another, poses or stretches, flowed into a hesitant dance as first she began to sway and then curve. Previously achingly slow movements sped up as she twisted, legs swinging out in graceful turns and arcs that brushed the long grasses and kicked up fireflies. In one flash of her movement he caught her smile, streaked with the black stands of her hair.

As the dance fell to a steady rhythm, her arms turned and twisted, pushed and pulled at the lights. The quavering motes were beckoned and cast away into ever changing positions. Periodically a shimmering line would tether them to one another. More and more joined in ever more complex and ever changing shapes.

In the beginning there was no sense to the shapes. To him they appeared as a jumble of dots and lines. Then, one struck him as familiar, then another.

"They're constellations," he murmured, the words lost to the rustle of grass.

As the sky darkened, it was only a matter of time before the disturbed fireflies took note of the lights. Curious they darted around the floating orbs, lazily swooping after them as they moved. Their inquisitiveness leant an appearance of shooting stars to the shifting lights.

It was mesmerizing to watch her move with a fluid grace previously unknown to him. It was reminiscent to how she casted and yet so much more. Her gestures of magic were always carefully calculated and executed, but there was a sense of the primal or savagery when she fought. Any dancing he had caught her in the act of had been silly drunken bopping at the Hanging Man; nights when Isabela managed to convince the Mage, used to keeping her head down and being unnoticed, to loosen up a little.

Yet, despite the random and almost wild nature to her dance, there was a control that spoke of years of practice. While her next move might have been a random choice, each step was performed with perfection.

He was unsure how long he had stood in the dark watching her. Time was a lost concept to him in the moment. Fenris was unsure of when he had become so relaxed. As she spun and leapt, arms spreading wide to fling away a pair of motes and skirt swirling, his heart leapt with her, fluttering wildly. In that very moment it occurred to him that his marks felt hardly of anything.

Warmth had suffused the normally aching tattoos; Sleepy moments where Marian curiously trailed her fingers along the twisting designs, the pair of them half-awake in bed. For the first time he felt not unnerved, but almost pleasant. The pain had dulled. His throat clenched.

But with nighttime falling, her dance began to slow. Breathing heavy, she at least came to a swaying stop. The motes of light dimmed, a few winking out one by one.

She stood, silent, hands reaching to gently cup her dance partners. The fireflies winked calmly in her hands before she lifted them up to release them once more to the air with a smile.

When at last the final light guttered out, she turned and started her journey home.

Following her in the dark was not as easy as during the day. The faint illumination of the lyrium tattoos meant he had to stay essentially out of sight. More than once the illumination was just enough to make her freeze, eyes darting nervously, ice crystallizing at her fingertips. He would draw back and in time, she would relax and continue.

Hawke's fingers had brushed the doorknob by the time he caught up to her. The touch of his hand on her shoulder had her whirling around. Wisely he took a step back as her fist raised. A flash of recognition and she sagged back, her hand lowering to rest over her heart. Relief melted into irritation with a glower.

"Watch it, you. I thought you were a Templar. I nearly decked you."

That would not have been a first. His lips twitched. "I do recall that not being an unfamiliar situation."

"I hurt my hand more than you," she scoffed, amused. But the amusement only lasted a moment. The curve of her lips slackened and her eyes narrowed, edged with suspicion. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

Not an unanticipated reaction. His words would need to be delicate; not something he was well versed in, if versed at all.

"I was curious."

Her eyebrows inched up slightly, but by the growing look of anxiety and irritation, Fenris knew she already suspected the answer to her silent question.

"Honestly I had gone to see what you did every night."

Tension sprang to life around her eyes, the lids nearly shutting in a grimace before Hawke caught herself. She attempted to cover her flush and sputter with anger. A clump of dirt was kicked up at him. "You couldn't have asked!?"

He countered her anger with a pointed look. "I have asked. You said you were exercising. Anything further was rather vague."

Anger dipped to a simmer and hurt crept at the edges. "You did not trust me?"

_Careful words,_ Fenris reminded himself; Easier said than done. His head shook, hands raised in placating gestures as he spoke. "I did not think you were lying, simply omitting. You have a tendency to gloss over things when you're worried what I will think or you are embarrassed. I did not think you were doing anything wrong, if that is what you are worried about."

The tension of defense hummed through Hawke visibly. Her arms crossed, more hugging herself than anything. Fenris made careful note of that. Her scowl was halfhearted, hazel eyes cast to the side. "How much did you see?" Resignation.

"Since you arrived in the glade."

Her expression crinkled, almost pained. In return he tilted his head, asking, but not pressing. Hawke's eyes slid back to him, studying. "Well?"

"It was beautiful." Firm, blunt, as was his nature.

Lips parted with surprise, Hawke's lashes fluttered for a moment in bewilderment. All pretenses of irritation to distract him from her embarrassment fell away. "I—What?"

"I take it that was not the answer you were expecting."

She scoffed, disbelieving of the situation. "It's magic, Fenris. You _hate_ magic."

That was not deniable. "I'm… not particularly partial to it."

Flat, she laughed. He thought, perhaps, that he detected some bitterness there. Not something that was entirely undeserved considering his harsh words to her in the past on the subject.

"That is an understatement, I think," she countered.

Definitely bitterness. Again, his head cocked, eyes narrowed faintly as he studied her. Openly curious, voice void of accusation Fenris observed more than asked, "You are uncomfortable casting around me?"

Marian Hawke stared back at him. "Is that a serious question?"

Her flat tone was not the best of signs. _Wrong thing to say…_ Internally he swore. Months together and years of friendship and he was still bad at this. "… Yes?"

The sigh that escaped her was heavy with weariness. Her fingers tightened around her upper arms, curling into her sleeves. It was unusual to watch this normally confident woman look away once more, avoiding eye contact. That was normally his habit, born of darker memories. Hazel irises shrank as pupils lost focus, blearily gazing into some middle distance.

"Yes," the word quiet, but steady. "I am uncomfortable casting around you because you are uncomfortable around me casting."

The side of her lip pulled with the hint of a grimace, or perhaps disappointment. He was not sure.

"Since we fled… In the past few months I have cut back severely on my magic. If it is unavoidable I try to save it for when you're not home. Distance sometimes or going to another room where I can't be seen." The final words were choppy, laced with shame. Lips turned down, Fenris noted that was a new thing for her.

He was all too familiar with her pride in her abilities, the confidence in her words and gestures as she called on the energies of the Fade. But so too did he remember chants of the Brothers and Sisters of Kirkwall.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world. Or beyond._

_Magic is a sin; a curse,_ they would murmur.

Hawke had never believed that before. What had changed? When had she started to doubt? His expression darkened further, throat tightening. Was this his doing, then? Had he driven her to curse the power she had been born with?

He should assure her that casting was not wrong.

"It is unwise to fall out of practice with a fighting style."

Eyes that appeared as burnished gold in the dark snapped to him, narrowed and fiery with frustration.

_Damn it…_ Another misstep. His fingers curled. Why was this difficult? Varric had made things like this always look so easy yet any attempt he made, Fenris always put his foot in it before he could catch himself; If he wanted to be bothered catching himself, anyway. Discomforted, he shifted under her gaze. Damage control.

"Hawke—Marian. I appreciate the sentiment. It is comforting to know that you would do this for me, to change so much to make me feel more at ease." Some of the fire left her eyes, and he stepped a little closer. "But, at the same time, while the lack of magic has brought me some comfort, it…" he caught slightly, expression tense with awkwardness. "It saddens me that you feel as though you need to make such drastic changes to your way of living for my sake."

Hawke watched, wary, bemused; her expression softened.

"What I saw in that clearing tonight…" He shook his head; not with disagreement or disgust, but rather an expression of what could be considered awe. "What I saw was unlike anything I have seen. It was not magic so much as a vision of expression."

What did that even mean? His face scrunched up in discomfort. This should not be so hard. There might have been the slightest twitch of humor on Hawke's face. Fenris was not sure if that was good or not.

"That's not… That didn't come out right. Of course it's magic. What I mean is—It was different." Still not right. He growled softly. "What I saw was not a corruption or curse, but beauty."

The shift of lips; muscles pressing together to fight a smile. Hopeful hesitance reflected on Hawke's face.

"I was unaware that you knew how to dance, at least, not in a traditional sense." Not that either he or Hawke would have called her goofy antics at the Hangman a dance in any true sense of the word.

At last, a laugh. Her head tossed. "No? I may be an apostate, but my mother was noble born. You think a noble's daughter could get away without learning to dance?"

Fenris' throat rumbled with a chuckle. "No, I suppose not."

The final vestiges of her earlier worry and upset had started to slip away. In a rare moment for him, his eyes locked with hers and remained. "When I first saw you begin to cast, I did not expect such a display. There was a beauty there that was surprising. Not the dance I mean, though I will not deny that it was pleasing to me, but the magic that intertwined with it. It was… It was like watching partners dance together. Two pieces to a whole.

"The way it flowed so effortlessly… The swing of one of the lights to match the curve of a leg or the sway of design to your body. It was so careful, controlled, and it brought… I felt secure. There was warmth, comfort, to witness something so rare, private."

Surprise had slackened her face. Hesitant, hopeful, she murmured, "So… it… didn't bother you?"

Pause, not of hesitation, but in confirmation with himself before an expression of choice. Fenris shook his head.

"No, I felt safe."

A powerful admission. For a man, a couple, that lived hunted lives, safety was something that they treasured, that they longed for above all else. To receive such a gift was beyond hope; something to be cherished.

The skin about her eyes crinkled in restrained emotion, her smile almost sad.

"Do not restrain yourself for me," he murmured. "I do not want to see you hold in who you are; to feel as though you can only let it out in one wild moment when there is not one to see it. I will never deny that magic vexes me, but there is a reason that I told that ap—that I told Anders I did not think of you as 'just another mage'." His hand reached up, finger tips tracing the curve of her cheek bone before cupping the warm skin.

A quiet had come over his voice, not necessarily passion, but conviction. "You exhibit control, a caution, so rare among other magic users. I have never feared your magic, though it has taken time to grow used to it. Indeed, over the years I have come to depend on your skills in the art to save my life, to have my back in battle. Unlike some, I have never feared to turn my back to you when you display your power. You have fortitude, a strength that I trust, to resist the temptations that we have seen so many other mages succumb to."

Mouth open, Hawke stared. The fact that she was so blatantly floored by such a lengthy confession, of sorts, filled him with both pleasure and embarrassment. Giving pieces of himself like this had never been an easy thing, but he forged ahead. Marian was important. She had given him a purpose in life, in his freedom, that he had feared he would never find.

Brows furrow he kept his voice strong against his discomfort of exposure. "I makes me unhappy, it hurts, that you have divorced yourself from such an intricate part of your being in order to make me happy. I would never desire for you to smother a piece of your being simply for my sake. You have no reason to feel shame for your talent."

The soft sound of her amusement was shaky with sarcasm, her smile sorrowful. "Tell that to the Chantry. What I have is a curse… a sin."

"There was a time I believed such things," he murmured. Brow drawn in a frown, her eyes searched his face, but he spoke before she could. "But you… You have worn away that belief of mine. I may hold little love or trust for most mages, but you have shown me that there can be control if a person has the strength; that _you_ possess this strength."

A step closer. They were nearly chest to chest. She went to take a step back, but a hand caught her waist and stilled her. Their faces were so close their noses scantly brushed. He neither looked away nor blinked.

"What you have is no sin."

Lips parted, be it with a protest or sweetened words, he never knew. Head dipped, Fenris slanted his lips over hers, swallowing any words. Stunned to stillness, it was a moment before he felt the press of Hawke's lips back against his own; the corners of her lips tugged into a smile.

When they broke apart, her hand rose to his face, the back pressing against his forehead.

"Are you sure you're not sick?"

A scoff and the roll of his eyes did little to hide the gleam of humor on his face. Without comment he took her wrist, drawing her hand away to press a kiss to her palm.

With a laugh, she shook her head with mild disbelief. "Does Varric know how smooth you are? Be careful. He might write you into his next romance novel."

Horror and disgust drew Fenris back. "Please, no. I would tear out his heart first."

Chuckling, Hawke leaned in enough to nudge noses. "No heart grabbing the Dwarf. It's rude."

Faint amusement escaped his voice, but he paused with thoughtful quiet. Her wrist still in his hand, Fenris quietly studied the lines of Hawke's palm. Curious, she watched him, but waited him out, recognizing his expression.

In the dark, lit only with the moon, stars, and fluttering fireflies he glanced up at her through the fall of silvery hair. "Would you… be willing to teach me the constellations you drew? I only recognized a few and even then that was by their Tevinter names."

Her smile flashed bright in the dark as she laughed. "Sure, why not?"

Hawke's wrist twisted in his grip, slipping free so that her fingers could entwine with his own. A gentle tug and she led them inside.

* * *

In the flickering dark of their living room, Hawke sat half in Fenris' lap in their over large arm chair. An old ratty book served as her table, Fenris holding a jar of ink, as Hawke smattered a piece of parchment with dots and lines.

Ink smeared her cheek where she repeatedly brushed aside the loose fall of her hair. The scratch of the quill was accompanied by the murmur of her voice as one by one, she drew out the images of the sky. Quiet, Fenris listened with rapt attention to the myriad of stories.

The candle had burned low when he asked, "How do you know so many of these?"

A flick of her wrist finished off her latest addition to the now crowded parchment; Wrists that were so delicate and yet with a staff had the ability to crush a man's skull. There were reasons he adored this woman.

"Father. It was not until maybe my early adolescence that we finally were able to settle in Lothering. Travelling with three kids in the wilds is not easy. Ignoring the Templars that hunted us, the wild animals, nasty weather, the elements, so and on so on, my parents had to contend with three very bored children." Her eyes crinkled with fondness for the old memories.

"Being on the run meant we travelled light, which meant little to no toys, basically. Instead, when it started to get dark, father would settle us all down to teach us about the stars. It was calming… The fears that would come with nightfall could be forgotten for a while in lieu of wild stories of dragons and heroes. The three of us often took to embellishing them during the day or acting them out, much to my mother's frustration."

Laughing, she dipped her quill into the ink to begin again. "This one was Carver's favorite. Bethany hated it as she was always the one to get whacked with whatever stick he'd chosen to be his sword on that day."

The tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she drew. Impulsively, he pressed a kiss against it drawing a laugh.

"Next time you go out, perhaps, may I join you? To watch." The last portion was hastily added. Dancing was where he drew the line.

But Hawke did not laugh, instead raising her head to blink at him with surprise. The honesty she found looking at him lit her face with warmth. Smiling she leant her head against his shoulder, nudging her nose against the beat of his pulse.

"I would like that very much."

His arm tightened around her waist to draw her further into his lap as she pressed a kiss to his throat.

Out in the wilds, hidden from the world, with this woman… There was no place he thought he would rather be.


End file.
